Montana – Jaime Alexis Stathis

ARE YOU STRONG ENOUGH TO BE?

I fashion myself a person who isn’t scared of much. I play it cool even when shaking in my boots. I recount past horrors with a detachment that is borderline frightening in itself, and I recall the details with such intense detail that listeners often say they felt gripped, like they were watching a movie. What they don’t say is that sometimes the movie I show them is one that needs to be leveled out with a piece of pie, a slapstick comedy, or a cocktail on the rocks.

Despite my ability to talk and write about my life with distance and perspective—sometimes even when I’m still in the thick of it—there’s one thing that when I talk about or even think about springs tears to my eyes. It lumps my throat, twists my gut, and takes my mind down the darkest, dirtiest avenues. I suppose I’m emotional about it because it’s still very much in the abstract, the kind of thing that it’s wasteful of time to worry about in advance. But, simply put, I don’t know how I’ll survive the loss of my dog.

Despite my transparency on this, it makes me uncomfortable when people express worry about how I’ll handle the loss. Sometimes well-meaning comments don’t come across that way. They’ll tell me about their own beloved-pet losses, and how it was easier because of their husbands, kids, other pets. Sometimes they come straight out and say, “I’m worried about you.” One part of me hackles my Mohawk—as if I’m a dog myself—and thinks “I”ll be fine…” and another part says, “Jesus Christ, you’re totally fucking right.”

The part that bothers me, as is often the case, is the part that’s true. When Lucky dies I’ll be alone. I describe myself as a person who’s happy being alone, who can read or write for eight-hour stretches. I can eat alone in a restaurant without any awkwardness or discomfort, go to a movie, move to foreign countries. I do an awful lot of things alone, by choice, despite loving spending time with friends.

I grew up an only child, and am always proud to say that “I know how to self-entertain.” That’s all true, but the other truth is that ever since Lucky picked me up at that party in June 2002 I’ve not really had to ever fully be alone. I have my friends and my family, but I wonder what it will feel like to wake up without Lucky, to wake up alone. Nobody to walk or feed or say good morning to.

I used to say that I’d need all of my friends around me when Lucky goes, then I upgraded to a fantasy involving a vacation to someplace tropical and lovely where I could erase my mind and then come home to a house where a team of cleaners had meticulously removed every dog hair and evidence of him so that I could move on, I suppose, like nothing ever happened. This past year, as Lucky turned thirteen, I started to believe in a more dramatic ending to this love affair where I’m put into a medically-induced coma. I say this last bit tongue-in-cheek, in part because I have a hard time believing that my heart just won’t stop beating on its own.

This is absurd on so many levels. Why would I want to erase evidence of the greatest love I’ve known? Why would I want to numb the feelings of such an intense love when I’ve dedicated the majority of my life to diving intentionally out of my depths simply so I could feel everything deeply?

It’s safe to say I’m unprepared.

I am a prepared person. I pack for a trip with a precision that borders precariously toward obsessive. I’m rarely caught without a sweater or a raincoat. I travel daily with Band-Aids and a few other first-aid supplies. Mini scissors are my best friend. I’m currently packing (I’m also skilled at procrastination) for a five-day trip that includes camping, a river float, a country club wedding, and temperatures between 30 and 80F . I’m pretty sure I’ve got it all and more, but despite my neurotic preparedness, there are things in life we simply cannot prepare for.

A friend lost her dog a few years ago, and she told me, “It doesn’t leave a hole in your heart; it opens you up to a bigger love that you didn’t even think was possible.” I believed her because I wanted to. Another friend recently told me that when he lost his dogs a few years ago it spawned a mid-life crisis. “Yes,” I said to him, “Yes. That will be me. Mid-life crisis is already on my calendar.”

Right when I was visualizing said crisis and myself in a muumuu for days or months, he told me something that surprised me, something that gave me a little hope. “You’ll love your next dog more.” His words hung in the late-summer afternoon light, and I asked him, “How? How could that even be possible?”

“It’s simple,” he said, “You’re able to love more because you know how it feels to lose them.”

Some of my friends have lost their dogs this year, this summer, this month. Some of these people have husbands and other dogs, but some don’t. Some buy plane tickets. They all survive.

Summer is a busy time everywhere, but it seems that Montanans log more miles than most what with our two national parks and all of the rivers and lakes to be accessed. Winter travel can be tedious with all the hours of dark we have up north on top of the ice, snow, and blowing snow. I drive very little in the winter, but usually, like others, I get out and explore my pants off during the summer. This summer has been different.

When people have asked me, “What’re you up to this summer?” my answer has been both clear and complicated, “Not much, sticking close to home.” Depending on who it is that could mean barely leaving Missoula or barely leaving Montana or barely leaving North America. For me it has meant sticking close to Lucky.

I declared this the summer of Lucky. Nine months ago when we were heading back to Missoula I didn’t think he’d last this long. If he was still alive by August I’d have guessed he’d be more like a bag of bones that I had to lift to a standing position, help up and down stairs, and boost into the car. Nope. Not even close.

But the guy came alive as we drove back to Montana and he was a hiking machine this winter. He slowed down when the heat arrived, so we’ve limited our hikes to early mornings, late nights, and less than three miles, though on a couple of cooler days we hiked over four miles and he finishes with a smile every time, and even some last-minute disappearing shenanigans just to let me know he’s still got it. By far the best parts of his summer have been our days on the river. We haven’t done any boating or anything fancy or exciting. We’ve just gone to the river to be.

I always focus on his smile, though it’s hard to not also notice when his back legs look tired and rickety, when he needs a boost after hard playing. My friend Soph and I always spend Mondays together. In the winter and spring it was hikes and barre class, but this summer we’ve spent our Mondays at our favorite beach on the Blackfoot River. This past Monday the smoke had finally cleared, but it wasn’t really a “beach” day. We could have gone on a hike, though it may have been a little hot for Lucky. “This could be his last swim,” I said as we sorted out our game plan, and she said, “Yeah, of the summer,” and I said, “Well, maybe ever…” That sealed the deal with cement. “I’ll be right over,” Soph said, “And I have snacks.”

That’s the story I’m telling myself right now, the story that my dog is getting older and our days are numbered. In a way it’s ridiculous because three winters ago I thought it would be his last to get out and play in the snow, but I was wrong. I figured he was going to conk out last winter after he ate rat poison in NYC, but the kid got his groove back. The problem doesn’t lie so much in the fact that Lucky is aging (albeit gracefully), but the damn story I’m telling myself about how much time I have and how completely I’m going to come undone when he goes.

Brené Brown wrote a great essay that was published recently in O Magazine about the power we have to change our narrative. She said:

“In navigation, dead reckoning is how you calculate your location. It involved knowing where you’ve been and how you got there—speed, route, wind conditions. It’s the same with life: We can’t chart a new course until we find out where we are, how we came to that point and where we want to go. Reckon comes from the Old English recenian, meaning “to narrate.” When you reckon with emotion, you can change your narrative. You have to acknowledge your feelings and get curious about the story behind them. Then you can challenge those confabulations and get to the truth.”

I’m working on modifying all sorts of patterns and narratives I’ve grown tired of, and this weekend I’m doing a bit of an experiment: I’m taking my first road trip without Lucky. My guy definitely gets jazzed about traveling…

…but he’s become a very sleepy guy.

The pace of the five-day “weekend” is going to be intense, and even if Lucky was a younger dog it would be tough on him, but I know I’d have dragged him around. I have always dragged him around. But I have to be smarter now, less selfish. Yes, I want him with me. No, it’s not what’s best for him. He’s in very good hands with his dog sitter who lets him sleep in bed with her and who met him at the door this afternoon with treats and a hug. He was fine when I dropped him off and he ran to play with the young dog who lives there, but me…not so much. I sang my heart out on the way home, but even still I may have even sprung a few hives, which I know seems ridiculous.

Then I went to work and just about lost my footing when my first appointment slot was empty, leaving me with extra time that I would have used differently had I realized it. I had a few errands to run, so did that, and even navigated a small repair on my car. It was just aesthetic and I used double-sided tape to do the job, so I’m not exactly a mechanic, but I still threw myself a small “You go, girl!” because. Yep, just because.

Massage work is wonderful for a number of reasons, among them the fact that for an over thinker like myself it is a mental vacation. I’m constantly doing nine million things at once, but when I go to work I make a concerted effort to forget it all and focus on the one thing I have to do: give my clients the attention they deserve. Despite a mile-long todo list, work was a blessing in disguise today, and I was even surprised by Soph, who dropped by to give me a care package. She knew. It’s amazing how our friends know.

Every bit of the package was meaningful and came with a note. One part was a bag of goldfish crackers that we’ve used this summer to coax Lucky into coming to hang out with us. Even though we go to the river “together,” he usually waves goodbye at the car and tells us he’ll catch up in a few hours. He does his rounds, hunts, scores carcasses in the woods, and is so cute that strangers give him Doritos and friend chicken. We coined the goldfish “Lucky bait” and Soph’s note said, “Lucky’s always with you!”

And she’s right, as spot-on as it gets.

It was so sweet and thoughtful it nearly killed me, but it’s funny how the things that elicit that response also fill our sails with air. Unfortunately something else struck me, something that Soph most likely realized before I did. Not only am I taking this trip without my kickass co-pilot, but I’m driving a familiar route, a route that I took almost three years ago when I left for an adventure that was mostly unplanned and that took me on the ride of my life.

I didn’t know how it would feel to live and write in that remote cabin in New Mexico, or to retrace my roots all over New England, or to shack up with my mother and grandmother for a year of caretaking that was the hardest things I’ve ever done. I didn’t know I’d leave Lucky for three months and spend the summer in Spain, or that when I was in Rome—making my way slowly back to New York—that I’d wake up one morning knowing I had to put a plan in place to get back to Montana. I didn’t know how, but I did it. The not knowing is sometimes the best part of the journey.

I didn’t know that shortly after my arrival home from Europe Lucky would eat the rat poison. Prior to that day I didn’t know if I could carry him, but when he couldn’t walk that’s what I did. I carried him out of the house, into the car, into the vet’s office, and then down the long hall wondering if I’d be coming back down that hall with an empty collar in my hand. I remember exactly how I felt in that moment, how I didn’t cry, how I told myself that I didn’t imagine him going out like that but we’d had a solid run.

In the moment I was fine. Not great, but fine. I was appropriately emotional, but not crippled by it. I was strong, and not only because I was carrying my big dog. Most of my friends say I’m great in a crisis; I’m the one you want around when the shit hits the fan. It’s not the moments I’m afraid, of; it’s the anticipation. The anticipation gets me every time. That lesson is still in progress, but damn it: I think I am getting there.

A few months ago I may have jumped the gun a bit. I got a tattoo on my left wrist that says “luck.” I’d been pretty solid on the placement for a while, but wasn’t sure about size or font. I wasn’t sure if it was wrong to memorialize my guy before he dies, so I opted for “luck” instead of “Lucky.” I used my own handwriting, which I practiced, and I love it.

This is hands down the only tattoo I could get that wouldn’t piss off my mother.

Between a Rock and a Book

Oh, man. Life is interesting.

Two weeks ago I wrote Sentimental Value about letting go of what no longer serves us, and the next day a friend invited me to go see a couple of guys called The Minimalists at a local bookstore.

I’d read a story about them in the Missoulian, which I immediately forwarded to my friend who lives with his wife in a beautifully minimal way. He then found out they were coming to town and asked me if I wanted to “grab a burrito and meet the guys who live simply.”

And why would I say no?

It was part reading, part presentation, and a lot of Q&A. They told us about their minimalist lifestyle, how they made the switch and how we can too. I didn’t know at the time that I’d set a different ball into motion a few days earlier, but we’ll get to that later.

I was on the verge of tears listening to these fine young men speak about their decisions to give up almost everything. One was speaking about the moment he realized that his high paying job was a trap, and as I thought to myself, “who was I just telling my version of that story to?” I spotted my acupuncturist turned around in his seat winking at me. Aha!

I had a really good job right out of college at an investment bank in San Francisco. We got frequent, generous raises and bonuses. I’d spend $400 at Banana Republic on my lunch break without thinking twice. I treated myself to massages, pedicures and and elegant dinners. I thought I “deserved” all of these things as a “prize” because 1) I went to work at 6:00am and worked long days, and 2) the life I was living was not the life I’d pictured for myself.

(NOTE: Before I got that job my best friend and I were very poor in San Francisco while we worked temp jobs and waited for something “real” to pan out. We’d go out on a friday night with $10 between the two of us to see how much fun we could have. We’d split a burrito then have enough leftover for a couple of cheap beers. (This was 1996. I’m old.) After that we’d hope some guys might buy us drinks (Sorry, guys.) but if that didn’t pan out we’d take a walk, deep condition our hair, have a dance party, or just people watch from our perch on her fire escape.

The apartment was above a fast food double whammy—KFC and Taco Bell under one roof—so the smells from the “balcony” were nauseating but the apartment was located in The Marina Triangle so the sights more than made up for the stink.

In conclusion: We had a helluva lot of fun with $10. We had fun because we were together. Would we have had more fun if we had $100? Honestly—I don’t think so, and actually believe it could be argued that with more money we might have had less fun.)

Anywho….

It turned out I liked the finance job more than I thought I would. The company served coffee and tea on real silver, and walking into our offices felt like walking into a Ritz Carlton. The views of the Bay Area were truly unbelievable and because 101 California Street is cylindrical the views were 360. You could see to Napa and halfway to Tahoe.

I was on the verge of my first real promotion (that would have doubled my salary) when I was out to lunch with some associates a year or two older than me. They were talking about their stuff. One had bought a Pacific Heights condo, one a BMW, and another had bought both. I listened and then finally dropped my fork into my Pad Thai and spoke like a true Master of the Obvious, “Oh my god. Now that you’ve bought all that expensive stuff—that you still have to pay for—you have to keep your job. You would be totally screwed without your job. Oh my god; you are totally stuck.”

I quit the next week.

It’s hard to place a finger on exactly why I teared up listening to Joshua and Ryan talk about how they’d come to a minimalist lifestyle. For Joshua it was when his mother died and he realized that he was planning to move all of her things halfway across the country so they could sit in a storage unit near his house. There was no mindfulness to it, and he was doing it more out of habit or obligation than anything.

The moving truck was on its way when he found sealed boxes from his childhood under his mother’s bed, things she’d kept as a way to hold onto the child he’d been, but that she’d kept sealed and never looked at. He cancelled the moving truck and the storage unit, then sold or donated almost everything. He asked himself, “What are we really holding onto here?”

Ryan’s process was different. He threw a party and his friends came to help him pack up his three-bedroom, two-bath house (that he lived in alone) as if he were moving. He then took items out of the boxes as he needed them. Three weeks later eighty percent of his belongings was still in boxes. As he said in the Missoulian interview, “The minimalist lifestyle is not about pursuing less, it’s about living more deliberately.”

So why was I dabbing the corners of my eyes? I was crying because of all the things I can ~~fairly~~ easily part with, photos, letters, cards, and books are not on the list. It appears I’m attached to paper.

I’ll happily spend hours sitting on my grandmother’s living room floor with pictures all around me asking her, “who is this?” and “where was this?” and “when was this?” and “Oh my! Look at this!” I will never remember all of her answers, but I will never forget the conversations.

Some people don’t value photos, but I am clearly not one of those people. Joshua suggested scanning fifty or so photos and putting them in a digital photo album. His opinion is that people don’t like photo albums, but I disagree. We now follow friends’ milestones and adventures in play-by-play fashion on Facebook. We see births, weddings, post-divorce jaunting in re-time. You don’t even have to talk to a friend to know what they’re doing, what they’re eating, and if they’re happy or sad. It’s great. I think.

But I sure do miss bringing home half a dozen rolls of film from a trip not knowing if you captured what you hoped to, then waiting for them to get developed, hoping you didn’t double-expose. They’d get sorted and occasionally torn up (but there were the negatives….), and the winners would make it into albums. Instead of clicking “share,” you’d actually have your friends over to look at your pictures.

I’m six or seven years older than Joshua and wonder if it’s a personality/preference thing, or if there’s just enough difference in our ages that he doesn’t really remember non-digital cameras. Or maybe he just doesn’t care about a record of history the way I do. It doesn’t make him insensitive, and it doesn’t make me clingy about the past. (Right?)

I choked back tears that night not because Joshua and I place different values on family photos—that would be weird—though it does make me sad that creating and sharing albums is a thing of the past, it’s not exactly tear worthy.

Here’s the thing: I’m sad that we even have to have this conversation. It’s sad that so many people don’t realize that their things will never make them happy. Some people will skim right over a newspaper article about Minimalism, dismissing it as “for other people.”

I’m sad that we have to have this conversation and that some people don’t even want to listen. There are people who will continue to buy crap that doesn’t last because it’s cheap, people who don’t understand free-range or humanely-raised, people who don’t understand the hazards of single use plastic and the benefits of recycling. some people will never get it. I cried for the collective with the realization that I’m part of the problem too.

I was going away for the weekend so I knew the next stage of my sorting out process would be delayed, but I started looking around at some of the things I’ve held onto that don’t have great associations or that I don’t find particularly useful. Here a short list of some of the things I got rid of:

Tibetan chimes: The man who gave them to me cheated on his wife (a lovely woman and good friend of mine) with a Thai hooker and I just can’t stand behind that. Sorry.

Japanese monkey teapot: Given to me as a housewarming gift for one of the most distressing places I ever lived in. I can’t tell you much except that the daughter of the owner harassed me while I lived there and for years after I moved out. Among other things, she accused me of being a government spy then told me I was the worst Independent Contractor ever hired by the United States. It was so weird, my feelings were actually hurt to be told I was terrible at something I wasn’t even doing. How bizarre. But seriously, that’s all I feel comfortable saying about that right now.

Black lab peppershaker: Previously part of a set with a yellow lab saltshaker. (Obviously there’s more to the story…)

Three Wise Monkeys: I tried but I just couldn’t get rid of Mizaru (see no evil), Kikazaru (hear no evil), or Iwazaru (speak no evil). No way. I love those guys!

As I gathered knickknacks to donate or keep, I kept bumping into pieces of my heart rock collection. A half dozen of them grace my windowsills and shelves, and to be honest they sometimes get in the way.

They topple into the kitchen sink, they make opening windows more complicated than necessary, and they threaten to blacken toenails when they jump, but I have a thing for them. I remember the joy of finding them on a trails and beaches. But what to do? What do you do with your heart rock collection?

And then the books. Sorting through my books is a whole different trip down memory lane. But I decided to take Ryan’s advice and go through the titles as if I was moving. I knew I’d be able to part with a couple dozen books.

A friend had a great idea, “How about you go through all your books and gift each of your friends 10-15 books for Christmas?” It was such a good idea and would be a phenomenal, thoughtful present, but…I’m just not into it.

Toward the end of college I got in the habit of writing the date and place where I read a book. Just seeing Geneva, Hood River, Petersburg, or Andover on an inside cover will take me back to where I was when I bought the book, who I was when I read it, and how it transformed me as a person and writer. There are books on my shelf that I’d never part with except in the case of a house fire, and I’d really like to have this in my house some day:

I did find a couple dozen books that aren’t that important to me, and as I was loading one into a giveaway box a packet of seeds fell out. Not just any seed packet: a packet of cosmos seeds. In the summer of 2000 I bought an Andrew Wyeth print called “Around the Corner” of a beachy cottage that has cosmos growing prolifically all around it. I fell in love with the flower at first sight, before I even knew what to call them, and have planted cosmos at several houses in several states—sometimes they grow, sometimes not a thing happens, and sometimes I just like to use seed packets as bookmarks.

For awhile I felt like maybe that print was holding me back, and in September 2011 I shot several rounds into that print which I wrote about HERE.

Despite the fact that I destroyed my print, I still think it’s a beauty and would most likely buy it again.

I’ve lived in a frightening number of places in the past twelve years. There were eleven just in Missoula, and six in other places. This is not counting interim situations or couch surfing; these are places where something was in my name. (I bet you’re asking yourself how it’s even possible for such a gypsy to accumulate much of anything, and believe me, I’ve asked myself the same.)

In most of them I’ve had all of my books, and in some of them just a few. One thing is for sure: I have never lived in a house without books.

As I sorted through the books I couldn’t help but think about all of the different shelves they’ve stood on. There was the one under the stairs, the ones under windows and in kitchens, and then there was the one behind my bed.

I was on a midnight alley walk with Lucky when I scored the bookshelf headboard in an alley about three blocks from where we lived. I propped it over my shoulder and carried that thing all the way home, but in the light of my kitchen I was disappointed. It was dingy and there was residue leftover from some kid’s sticker decorations. I was repurposing a child’s headboard that she’d pimped out with stickers? Had I lost it?

I wavered for a moment, maybe the bookshelf headboard was a tad bit juvenile for my (then) thirty-year-old self, but the next day I painted it a cornflower blue, stuck in behind my bed, and filled it with books that were the perfect size to fill the space.

The titles weren’t intentional—it was mostly about size and a little bit about color—but because there really aren’t any coincidences, a friend pointed out the titles that anchored my bed and read them to me in in story format: The Boys of My Youth, Cowboys Are My weakness, Great Expectations, Small is Beautiful, The Serpents of Paradise, Lucky.

The list of things I discover tucked inside books is endless, but the spines tell me stories too. This time around I turned up a 1997 letter from a college boyfriend from back when we thought that maybe our dreams were the same. I found birthday cards from coast to coast friends and a program from one of the most interesting weddings I’ve attended at a haunted hot springs “resort.” I also found a Western Montana State Fair non-refundable beer ticket hidden inside a Wallace Stegner book.

The font made the ticket look fifty years old, but I’d approximate it was from 2001. AKA the year I wore a brand new white hat with a plaid dress to the rodeo and was repeatedly mistaken for a country singer who was popular at the time. It’s nothing, right? Just a beer ticket that has spent the last decade as a bookmark? Hardly.

That page doesn’t even need to be marked any more, but I left it in there. Maybe someday when I’m not in Missoula that ticket will fall out, the font even more dated, and I’ll shed a tear for this place I love but sometimes choose to leave.

Oh, man. Why all this crying? (I’m on day 6 of the Master Cleanse and the physical and emotional detox is deep. And intense. More about that in the next post…)

I found lots of photos including one of me popping out of a sleeping bag when I was on a Green Tortoise bus trip to Yosemite. It reminded me of the adventurous girl I’d been who backpacked her gear to the fancy job in the high-rise and stashed it in the corner of her cube. At the end of the day she changed into her traveling clothes, and hung her business suit behind her chair, abandoned her heels under her desk. After two full days in Yosemite, the bus drove through the night (that what the Green Tortoise does) and pulled back into San Francisco around 5:00 am, just in time for her to go back to the office, wash her face and hands, change into her clothes from Friday and hope that nobody noticed the campfire smell on her dirty up do.

I’m smitten with that adventurous girl who doesn’t worry so much. Fifteen years can take a toll on a person, but seriously, does it have to?

Most of my discoveries were tucked back into their places between the pages, like they live there, because they kinda do. They’re not taking up any extra space on my book shelves, and even though a few tears were sprung in the process, they’re happy tears. I find an extraordinary amount of joy bringing to light things that might otherwise be forgotten.

The Minimalists do not value photos and books so those are not the things they prioritize keeping, but they also don’t act like authorities. They don’t tell anyone what to keep or not keep, they just suggest you ask yourself, “Is this adding any value to my life?”

So what’s this all about? Cleaning and discovery? Adventure? Minimizing baggage? Yes and no to all of the above. On September 6^th I wrote about Second-Guessing and pondered whether I should be content with (and appreciative of) the nice life I have in Missoula or if it was time to head off on another adventure. Because I’m single, thirty-eight, childless, and…why wouldn’t you?

I have a serious love-hate relationship with rootedness. In September I was the runner-up for a house sitting gig in Creede, Colorado, population just over four hundred, and though I didn’t get the position it got my wheels turning. I want some time dedicated to writing, but do I need to housesit in the middle of nowhere to get that?

I skipped over Colorado at that point and went straight to researching New Mexico. It’s a big, beautiful, diverse state, and there were a lot of options. I love New Mexico, and though it’s been about ten years since I’ve been there, I’ve wanted to get back there for most of that time.

It was love at first sight when I found the cabin on a Goji Berry farm in San Cristobal, New Mexico, about eleven miles outside of Taos. I forwarded the listing to my good friend who replied, simply: “SHUT!!!! UP!!!!”

She was right; I couldn’t have mocked up a better writing retreat. But I don’t remember what happened next. I think I contacted the owner and didn’t hear back, but it’s possible I never even got the ball into the air. Regardless, nothing happened with the cabin. I stayed put and was happy about it. I kept working and writing. I swept my wanderlust under the rug. Sort of.

But a lot has happened in that time, and because I believe in serendipity and things happening for a reason that cabin came on my radar again.

A few days before I went to meet The Minimalists I wished a childhood friend a happy birthday on his Facebook wall, and when I returned from my girls’ weekend away I had a private message from him saying thanks and inquiring about how I was doing.

I was pretty grouchy when I read his message. I’d been sick in both October and November, and the Montana winter ahead of me seemed endless, dark, dreary, and more than a little dismal. I wanted to tell him, “I’m great! Life is grand!” but felt more comfortable being authentic. I bucked up and told the unvarnished truth: “Although I love living in Missoula, occasionally I ache for new vistas for my eyes and heart. This is one of those times.”

Ugh. Right? I said that? To a grade school friend who I’ve chatted with a couple of times on Facebook, but who I had not had real communication with in close to twenty years. Oh, Jaime…

I was honest—my intention—but seriously wished I could retract my statement and transform it into something a little more user-friendly. I reread and reread and reread my words with ache and remorse, but then his response popped up: “I’m living in Taos this winter so if you need some inspiration come visit.”

Shut. The. Front. Door. If I need some inspiration. I told him not to mess with a girl who’s always ready for an adventure.

I couldn’t stop thinking about New Mexico and spending the winter there, and I tore like a crazy person through my emails to find the one I’d sent to my friend back in September about the cabin. My suspicion was correct: Taos.

All it took was the mention of the word and my wheels began to crank. I perked up the mere thought of an adventure. I remembered that in New Mexico they have sun in the winter. I started thinking about the food, the smells, the change of scenery.

{My subconscious was clearly looking for a sign.}

Taos’ history of being a welcoming and supportive community for artists dates back over a hundred years, but as I began to communicate with the owners of the farm I learned that famous writers and thinkers like D. H. Lawrence, Aldous Huxley, and Elizabeth Kübler-Ross had all lived and wrote on the property where the cabin is located. On. The. Property. On it. Right there where I could go. Not just in the town; on the friggin’ property.

There were a lot of signs and they poured in faster than I could absorb them, but I’ll just cut to the chase here—I rented a cabin on the goji berry farm. From January 10-April 10 Lucky and I will post up in the cabin where Huxley lived and wrote.

Yesterday I signed the new lease and made it official, then gave notice on my current home and job. It wasn’t easy to officially make the decision—to leave my good life full of wonderful people in Missoula— but once I finally got off the fence I knew I’d made the right choice. And I couldn’t be happier.

And then I wasn’t just pretending to pack for a move; I was actually doing it. Friends came over to pre-shop the clothes I pulled out for consigning and more bags went out the door. I took down my bookshelves, and instead of just getting sorted, the books started going into boxes.

I try to find the right size books to go in the right size boxes, but there are always gaps where the books on top might be a little shorter than the books below, or maybe there’s no more room for a stack of books, but a few can slide in sideways. But there are gaps.

And then all of a sudden it became very clear what I’m supposed to with my heart rock collection. I’m supposed to use them to fill in the spaces between the books in the boxes. Of course. Of course that’s exactly what you do with your heart shaped rock collection.

THIS STORY IS FAR FROM OVER….

City Love

I posted a few pictures yesterday on Facebook in an album titled “Missoula Marathon 2012.” That is what the event is called, but in addition to a full marathon there’s a half-marathon, a relay, a 5K, and a Kid’s run. A lot of my friends “liked” my album and the individual photos, and with each click I almost felt obligated to clarify: You know I “just” ran the half? Right?

But there’s something odd to me about the word “just.” Just is one of those words that has a wide range of meaning—everything from morally right to deserved to only.

In the case of my marathon it means “only” or “no more than” the half. Sort of like when people say “we’re just friends,” as if being more than friends would be better, when in fact sometimes it’s not. Or like when people say, “I’ll just have the bacon double cheeseburger, with fries, and might as well have onion rings,” then when asked if they want a drink say, “Okay, I’ll just have a diet coke.”

In a lot of cases “just” is quite a lot.

I ran the half-marathon in 2008, and in 2010 and 2011 my mother came out and we “just” walked it. After I ran the 2008 half-marathon I was with a friend who told his mother I’d just finished the half-marathon to which she replied: “What happened to the other half?” She was being funny, but for some reason it stuck with me. Is the other half necessary? Is it too much? Is it more than enough?

A lot of people run full marathons, sometimes multiple marathons in a year. Sometimes marathons on challenging terrain. Sometimes marathons with a live band at every mile. Sometimes marathon that hurt their bodies beyond repair.

Some people never run a full marathon; I am one of those people.

I’ve thought about it. I love running and its ability to reset me when my wiring goes haywire. I love that running requires so little and gives so much, and I will do it until my body tells me not too. I’ll do it when it’s too hot, too cold, too icy, too dark. That said, I’m not physically constructed “like a runner,” and definitely fall into the category of built for comfort and not for speed. I don’t think running a full marathon would serve me well, so I gratefully accept my ability to run just half.

Just half is a lot. It’s 13.1 miles, and in Missoula that is all on pavement. It starts at 6:00, which means a wake up time around 4:00. On July 8^th the sun rose before 6:00 and there was light popping over the hills before that, but still…waking up that early is just not just. It feels downright inhumane to be awake at that hour wondering: have I eaten enough? Have I pooped? Have I hydrated? Have I completely lost my mind? {emphasis on that last one.}

But then you get downtown and start to feel the energy of the thousands of other runners taking school busses to the start. You’re glad you have a rack of ponytail holders on your wrist so you can give one to the woman who can’t believe she forgot. You see bodies that have trained and bodies that have not. You see runners, walkers, and hand-cyclers. You see wheelchairs. You see t-shirts announcing the runner is running in loving memory of someone. You think: maybe I haven’t lost it. You know: I can do this.

You hear the Star-Spangled Banner and you put your hand over your heart. You might tear up. You see the guys running in superhero underpants, the girls running in tutus. You smile. But the national anthem ends, the shot is fired, the fireworks go off, and so do you.

Afterward you’ll hear about the ten-year old who finished (just the half) and the woman who ran NOT just the half after sustaining a traumatic brain injury twelve years ago and had to learn to walk and then to run. You’re in awe.

I didn’t train for this event. I hadn’t run more than five miles since last fall and I was technically unprepared. The week before the marathon I googled “ running a half-marathon without training” but the results were inconclusive; I was going to have to find that answer within myself, and myself said, “YES!” Then it said, “maybe,” then it said, “yes” again. I caught myself on a yes and signed up less than twenty-four hours before the event. I made my decision they way I’ve made most of my decisions in life: would I rather try and fail then not try and not know?

trytrytry. yesyesyes. trytrytry. yesyesyes. trytrytry. yesyesyes. trytrytry. yesyesyes.

There were times I was propelled along by the energy of the runners all around me, but most of the time I was in my own little world. I enjoyed toggling back and forth between running with thousands of others runners and going within, telling myself I was “just going on a nice Sunday run across town, listening to music, enjoying the views.” The body is powerful, but the mind even more so.

I made myself a killer playlist that had about eight days worth of songs on it. Some of the songs I’ve loved in my past didn’t deliver the way I’d hoped, and some songs that I’d added on a hunch got me turning my legs over in ways I didn’t expect. House of Pain “Jump Around.” Gwen Stefani “The Sweet Escape.” Tiffany “I think we’re Alone Now.” Kid Rock “Bawitdaba.” Sugarland “Stuck on You.” Barry White “Can’t Get Enough.” Sublime, “Santeria.”

Wow, there really isn’t a lot of shame left in my game…

Because I went into the event “untrained” I told myself I could walk some if I needed to, but it turned out that if I ran at my own pace I didn’t need to. It took me two-and-a-half hours to finish, with my miles averaging out at 11:40. I almost felt guilty because at the end I had some juice to spare, but I stopped myself: why is it necessary to push ourselves to exhaustion or injury? Why can’t we just enjoy ourselves?

The Missoula Marathon has been rated among the best in the US, and was ranked #1 by Runner’s World in 2010. That’s great. It’s great for our community and for the runners who get to experience the improvements every year even as the event continues to grow. If the Missoula Marathon has growing pains they are not apparent; every year the efficiency improves but the hometown feel remains.

Formal and informal surveys alike continually name one thing as the factor that makes the Missoula Marathon so incredible. Everyone agrees that the scenery is lovely and the climate is dry and comfortable, but it’s the people that really make it special.

The marathon volunteers give us water, sort our bags, and cheer us on. My bus driver told every single person who got off to “have a good run.” Then there’s the man playing his grand piano on his lawn across from the Bitterroot River just after 6:00am. There’s the guy with the record player. There are the dozens of people who set up sprinklers in front of their houses, some rigged high on ladders so you can run through a shower. There are the people drinking coffee wrapped in blankets sitting on tailgates, the kids in pajamas, the mothers in robes. The dogs. There are the kids handing out otter pops (I got pink!) and the coolers of ice with signs to “help yourself.” There is so much cheering, so much support, so much city love.

I don’t live in Missoula for the skiing, the fishing, or the mountain biking: I live here (and love it) because of the people. Missoula people are so awesome. My close friends, my extended friends, the barista at the coffee shop, the stranger who changed my tire, the three-year old (also a “stranger”) who gave Lucky a tennis ball at the Big Dipper last night. I’ll say it again: Missoula people are so awesome.

Yeah, I guess it’s just the people.

Thanks, again, Missoula.